


When You Least Expect It

by Huggle



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Original Character Death(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-22
Updated: 2013-09-22
Packaged: 2017-12-27 07:32:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/976137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Huggle/pseuds/Huggle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fusco ends up in a bad situation.  He's on his own, right?  He knows that.  No one is going to come for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When You Least Expect It

**Author's Note:**

> Set early season 1.

They dragged him, slung between them like dead weight, out of the van, over the rough ground and up the steps into the back room.

His slacks tore, his knees turned bruised and bloodied, and when they threw him down into the corner his head collided with the edge of something sharp. With his hands tied behind his back, he couldn’t wipe the blood out of his eyes.

And they hadn’t even asked him anything.

That, more than anything, told him he was fucked.

:: ::  
 _Two hours earlier_

“This is a situation that will resolve itself quickly,” the mayor said. He held up his hand as reporters yelled questions at him, each fighting to ask the one that got answered. “I would ask the police to remember the oath they took, and consider the people of this good city that depend on them for protection and order. Please, return to work.”

Carter slapped the off switch on the TV, and slumped back down in her chair. “I could shoot Jacob Lewinsky myself, right now. What the hell was he thinking?”

Fusco shrugged. It felt so weird, just the two of them sitting in the quiet of a squad room that was usually full of hustle and bustle. “Maybe he wanted to do the right thing.”

“This is the right thing?” Carter snorted at him. “More than half the force down with the blue flu because he couldn’t keep his own damn self under control, and decided to do the honourable thing about six months too late. Is this a guy thing?”

Fusco ignored the jibe. The only guy around was obviously going to be used for target practice. “We’re going to be too busy to debate it,” he said. There was a red ‘call waiting’ light flashing on almost every phone in the room.

Carter grabbed a pad and pen and sat down at her desk. “I told Collins on the desk to divert any overflow he couldn’t handle up to us.”

“This is more like a flood.”

“Then start bailing.”

:: ::

He had managed to turn himself so that his back was wedged into the corner. He’d pulled his knees up to his chest so he made less of a target or an enticement for some more punch bag work.

They were hunched over a high table on the other side of the room, discussing something. Him, probably. Whatever language they spoke, he didn’t, but there was no mistaking that it was getting heated.

His phone, what was left of it, was on the counter. Even if it was still working – which would take a miracle, and his guardian angel had fled the coop a long time ago – they’d probably thought to switch it off.

So nobody could use it to find out his location. Which they didn’t need to bother about, because nobody was that interested.

The phone was right next to his gun, and his badge. Knowing he was a cop was probably what they were arguing about. He had a feeling it wasn’t going in his favour.

One of them, the tallest, with the scar jaggedly following his jaw line, stomped over and grabbed his hair. He slammed his head back against the wall.

“Ju bastard budalla. A e dini që ju keni shkaktuar telashe?”

He drove a kick into Fusco's hip, snarling when Lionel refused to look at him or make a sound.

“Lënë atë. Ne do të hale atë diku më vonë.” One of the others waved his arm at the man, summoning him back. He went but not before kicking Fusco again, and sniggering down at him.

Yeah, things were definitely not going in his favour.

::

“Watch yourself,” Carter yelled across the street to him as he got into his car. “Remember, no uniforms!”

“Yeah, you too,” he called back. He got in, turned on the lights and chirped his siren at her as he pulled away. This was hell. Every day on the job was risky, he’d known that when he signed on. But back then he was married and his boy was just a wished for dream, and he had a whole force at his back.

Today, his kid counted on him, and Carter’s boy on her, and they were each other’s only back up. Back up that was not going to be near enough to count because the two of them were trying to cover miles of territory almost by themselves.

His phone went, and he tapped the earpiece he’d gotten use to just keeping in all the time because he never knew when to expect a call from the dynamic duo.

“Fusco.”

“Lionel.” 

Fusco suppressed a shiver. Even now, the big guy’s voice always made him feel like he’d been caught with his hand well and truly in the cookie jar. And was about to get the lid slammed down on it.

“Kinda busy, in case you haven’t been watching the news. We’re a little thin on the ground today.”

“I know. Just wanted to remind you that if things get out of hand you can let me know.”

Fusco snorted, and shook his head. He let the siren wail as he ran a light at an intersection and slid the car smartly into a gap that opened up in the traffic. “Sure. My own personal 911.”

“Lionel-”

“Gotta go.”

He tapped the earpiece, cutting Reese off. Somehow he couldn’t see Reese racing to his rescue. Anytime the suit showed up to help, it was because he was getting something out of it. And that usually involved him getting pushed further in with HR or anybody else that Reese needed watched or eventually brought to heel.

Like Reese had brought him to heel.

The thought made him put his foot down, and by the time he pulled up outside the bodega, he was hoping the kid had fled. If not, if he’d been stupid enough to hurt somebody, Fusco might just take a leaf out of his new owner’s book and shoot him in the knee.

:: ::

Fusco might not have known what they were saying, but he could read their body language. None of them were the boss of this little operation – not that he exactly knew what the operation was – and so far that had kept him alive.

No one wanted to be the one to kill him and have the others point their fingers at later when it turned out to be a bad call.

But when the phone rang and the one with the scar answered it, Fusco could see the decision was made.  
He considered briefly if it was worth a fight. They could only kill him once. It was the warm up he was worried about.

The one with the scar put the phone down and nodded to the others. He came over, and Fusco thought ‘Fuck it,’ and kicked out with both legs.

Which seemed to be what the guy was expecting. He caught Fusco’s feet and laughed at him. Then he tugged until Fusco was hauled down onto his back, head cracking against the wall and then the floor.

The weight on his bound hands was agony, but he didn’t cry out. No way he was giving this piece of shit the satisfaction.

“Get it over with, then,” he said, and spat up into the man’s face.

It was going to hurt, whatever he did.

:: ::

Fusco moved carefully into the bodega, weapon drawn. He could hear voices – a couple of older ones, male and female, high pitched, frightened. The language he didn’t understand, but he knew pleading when he heard it.

And then a younger voice, just as scared sounding.

He kept under cover, advanced along a row filled with canned goods and huge bags of dog food. The boy he could just see up ahead, moving back and forward out of sight. He was jumpy, kept running his hands through his hair.

Including the hand that held the blade, and Fusco was kind of surprised he hadn’t taken his eye out already. Would have shut this situation down pretty fast if he had.

Then the boy went back to waving it at the old couple, who were cowered behind the till.

“The money,” he demanded. “Look, just give me it, ok? And then I can go and you can just forget. Forget this ever happened. I need it.”

Fusco raised his gun. He was still out of sight of the old couple, but the boy caught the movement out of the corner of his eye and turned. He raised the knife stupidly at him.

Before Fusco could speak, something flashed from the direction of the till, and hit the boy hard in the side. He was slammed out of Fusco’s line of sight, and it was all so sudden it took him a second to process that someone had just taken the kid out.

He yelled ‘Police, don’t shoot,’ because the old couple hadn’t heard him come in and he didn’t want to end up getting shot as well. Hell, he hoped they at least understood the English for police.

He moved cautiously to the end of the row. The old man saw him, saw the badge pinned to his pocket and put down the gun. Double barrelled, and Fusco didn’t know how the hell he fitted a shotgun under that counter, let alone wield it in that tight space.

He knelt down beside the boy. He was wheezing, blood bubbling up from between his lips. 

“Ok, you’ll be ok,” Fusco lied. He yelled over his shoulder at the shopkeepers. “Ambulance. 911!”

They had to understand that; somebody had called for the cops because of this kid.

“I’m sorry,” the kid gasped. “I didn’t...I needed.... Oh, please, mister, help me.”

Fusco grabbed the boy’s hand. It was all he could do and not enough. “Just hold on,” he said.

The boy did, for a few moments longer, and then his fingers went slack in Fusco’s grasp. 

“Dammit.” CPR was no use, not with the damage. Nothing he could do would be of any use, where the hell was the ambulance!

He shot to his feet, turning on the couple. “Where’s your phone, didn’t you call?”

The old man was standing behind him. He had the shotgun in his hands again, and before Fusco could do anything he swung the butt right into his face.

::::

Fusco grunted as he tried to throw the guy off, but he was helpless. He couldn’t do anything as hands closed around his throat, fingers digging in to his skin. He gasped, struggling as his air was caught off.

He kept bucking, desperate beyond measure. This wasn’t how he wanted to go. He didn’t want to go at all, but at least.... At least if this was it, he hadn’t gone out doing a job for HR. And with a little luck because of that none of the things he had done would come to light.

His boy would get his pension, and not have to grow up knowing his dad had been a dirty cop.

Had been. 

It was some comfort at least.  
::::

Carter stood outside the bodega. It was empty, other than the dead boy on the floor. She’d managed to rustle up a couple of uniforms who hadn’t followed the blue walkout and even a couple of CSIs who’d come in on their off days to help out how they could.

But her partner was gone.

She still had her doubts about Fusco, but once the CSIs had cleared her she’d done a walkthrough of the shop. It all screamed wrong to her. The kid was dead courtesy of a shotgun blast to the side of the chest. The owners were gone. Fusco was gone.

There was no reply to his phone, and perhaps most ominous of all – his car was still here.

And the bodega had no CCTV which in this part of town was crazy. And probably meant their insurance rates were sky high.

Unless they had no need of CCTV. Or insurance.

It was Albanian territory after all. And she should have thought to make sure Fusco knew that. He was still learning this division.

Dammit.

She broke away from the police line, and got into her car. She hated doing this, but whatever else she thought about Fusco he was still a cop.

She dialled Reese’s number, and he picked up almost immediately. “Carter?”

“So I need some help. My partner...Fusco. I think he might have run into trouble and I don’t know how you do what you do, but.... Can you help?”

There was silence, for a few moments. Carter got the impression there was another conversation going on, one she wasn’t privy to. But Reese was back on the line, suddenly.

“I’ll take care of it. I’ll tell you where to find him.”

“Wait,” Carter said, but the line went dead. Just like that she was shut out of it.

Man was infuriating. But it wasn’t like she didn’t have her hands full here. And Reese was competent. Lethal, but competent. If anyone could find Fusco, bring him back, it was John Reese.

::::

Fusco didn’t react at first to the gunshot. His own heart beat was deafening in his ears, slowing but still so loud. Everything was distant and altered, even the man above him squeezing the life out of him seemed to be miles away.

The steel grip around his neck was the only thing anchoring him and even that wouldn’t be there for much longer. It wouldn’t need to be.

But the scarred man did react. He turned, breaking contact, and there was more gunfire.

Then a hand reached under the man’s chin and he was hauled up and away. 

Fusco figured the lack of pressure around his throat meant he should be doing something but he couldn’t remember what. His chest burned and ached, and his vision was funny, like the room was gradually going dark.

Reese was there, suddenly, and he slapped Fusco hard.

The whooping breath he drew in, without conscious effort, hurt almost as much as when he hadn’t been able to.

“Alright, Lionel, just breathe. You’ll be fine.”

Breathing quickly turned into coughing; Reese grabbed the front of his jacket. Fusco couldn’t protest or help as he was manhandled into a sitting position and shoved against the wall to make sure he stayed that way.

“You sure? Fuck granddads with guns.”

Reese grinned. “You do remember I told you that you could let me know if things got out of hand.”

Fusco jerked his head at the remains of his phone. “Yeah, I remember that.” He turned away, sullen. “But what was in it for you, huh. So who were they?”

He stared at the men lying in various states across the floor of the room. One was definitely circling the drain, Fusco could tell that from where he was sitting.

“Albanian gang. They cover most of that district, including the bodega you responded to. I think it’s safe to say the owners weren’t the ones who called 911.”

Fusco thought back to the boy bleeding out on the floor. There was no point in asking.  
“Can you get me up?”

Reese hauled Fusco to his feet, and Lionel turned around so his back was to him. He held his wrists up, pointedly.

“Sorry, Lionel.”

“What?”

He wasn’t ready for the black hood that Reese shoved over his head. 

“Hey. Get this thing off me. What the hell are you doing?”

Reese’s hands closed on his shoulders, squeezed firmly. “Your partner’s already received an anonymous tip off about your location. This way you won’t face any awkward questions about who intervened on your behalf.”

Strong hands guided him back down into the corner, settled him. Then Reese’s voice was back in his ear. 

“Oh, and Lionel? There was something in it for me.”

“Hey. Reese. Reese!”

But he was gone, and Fusco was left to get his head straight in the couple of minutes it took for the sound of a police siren to reach him.

:: ::

John watched from his vantage point as Carter rushed into the portacabin. She came out a few moments later, supporting Fusco as she got him into the car.

He lowered the rifle. It’d been unlikely any more gang members would have shown up – not when they’d thought the situation was under their control. Or that any of the ones already there would have recovered enough to pose any further threat to Fusco. But he preferred to be safe rather than sorry.

“Situation resolved, Mr. Reese? I take it Detective Fusco is none the worse for wear because of his experience?”

“He’ll be fine,” Reese said. “Thank you for the lead.”

He could hear Finch tapping away at his keyboard. “It wasn’t difficult to track them across the traffic cameras. You probably should have left before Detective Carter arrived. In fact, the longer you keep them both dangling the more likely it is that they’ll realise they are both helping you.”

Carter had pulled out by then, but if there were any patrol cars available one would likely be on the way. Reese put the rifle back in its case and stowed it under the hidden cover in the trunk.

“It’s safer for them if they don’t know, Finch. Safer for us too. And I don’t think it’ll be too difficult to keep them from finding out. They don’t really trust each other, which helps. And Fusco doesn’t really trust me.”

“And yet Carter risked calling you to rescue him. And you did.”

“He’s a valuable asset.”

“Who tried to personally murder you, and then stood by to watch as drug dealers prepared to decapitate you. I think we need to discuss your definition of valuable and asset.”

Reese drove off, checking for any sign of pursuit from the building site, or for the arrival of more police. “You’ll have to trust me on this one, Finch. I can handle Fusco.”

“I hope so,” Finch said. “Because I’m hardly able to storm a room full of gang members to rescue you.”

Reese couldn’t keep the amusement out of his voice. “All the same, you’d think of something.”

There was no hesitation in Finch’s reply. “Yes. I would.”

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a meme of interest prompt that asked for Fusco getting captured and doubting that anyone would bother to come for him, while Reese & co are trying to find him.


End file.
